Loving and Being Loved
by SassyPantsJaxon
Summary: In which England needs to help a friend, and France just needs to not be alone. Slight FrUK/UKFr.
1. Loving

England picked up his cellphone, hoping he didn't answer too late, "Hello?" Dialtone. "Damn it," He checked his caller ID, swore again, then redialed the number. It wasn't answered, so he rang again. This time it was picked up, but there was just silence on the other end. "Hello?" Silence. "Hello?"

"I'm bothering you, aren't I? If you have something else you need to do, I can call back,"

"No! No, no, It's fine."

"...You didn't answer…"

"I was outside, I couldn't get to the phone in time." he heard fabric rustling on the other end of the line, "Are you in bed?" It was almost two in the afternoon.

"...Yes…"

"When was the last time you got up?"

"This morning."

"Did you eat anything?"

"Mhm, I showered too."

"Do you need me to come over?"

"You're busy."

"Nothing that can't wait a day or two." he grabbed his keys and went out to his car.

"You don't have to-"

"Nonsense, I'm already on my way." Silence. "Still there?"

"Yes," the other voice only came out in a whisper.

"Okay. I'm going to hang up now. Will you be alright until I get there?"

"...I think so."

* * *

The house was completely silent when Arthur let himself in. He left his shoes by the door and continued upstairs.

He opened the door of the master bedroom to find a lone figure curled up and completely covered by the blankets. Arthur sighed before lifting a corner and crawling in. He slid his arms around the bed's original occupant, who rolled over and curled into him instead, burying his face in his shoulder. Arthur could feel the other one shaking as he gently ran his fingers through their long hair.

"It's alright," Arthur whispered, "It's going to be alright."

* * *

Francis hated feeling this vulnerable. He hated pretending that nothing was wrong. He hated that no one understood. No one except Arthur.

He hadn't planned on Arthur finding out, but he had made the mistake of not holding his tears until he got home. So when Arthur found him crying in his car after a meeting and demanded to know why, Francis had ended up telling him everything.

No one liked him. Actually it was worse than that: everybody hated him. They called him a pervert or a rapist when they thought he couldn't hear them. Even his two best friends were distancing themselves from him, maybe not intentionally, but they were. He was alone.

Arthur was the only one who understood his loneliness and depression. The only one who saw it. The only one who made sure he got out of bed and ate and bathed, because Arthur said doing that would help him feel better.

Francis hated it. He hated that he had sunk this low. He hated that it was the only reason Arthur cared. He hated that as soon as he was better, Arthur would leave.

He didn't want that. He wanted Arthur to stay. He wanted Arthur to hold him, not because he needed comfort, but because he loved him.

He wanted Arthur to love him as much as he loved Arthur.

Because he did. He loved Arthur. He had loved him ever since they were much younger: before the wars, before the colonies came and left, back when they were children, Francis had fallen in love with him.

And he didn't want Arthur to ever find out, because then he would leave, and Francis didn't think he could handle that. Not now.

He knew anything Arthur felt now would just be pity, and he didn't want that. He wanted Arthur's feelings to be genuine. As it was, he really wasn't sure that Arthur really cared enough to be there, or if he just felt obligated. He didn't want to know.

So instead he chose to tell himself that Arthur cared, at least a little, and hope that someday he would believe that.

And in the meantime, he just hugged Arthur's waist and cried into his shoulder and prayed that the other man would still be there when he woke up.


	2. Loved

Arthur glanced at the kitchen clock, it was now after eight pm. According to what Francis had said earlier he hadn't eaten since that morning. He looked in the fridge, there wasn't as much food as he would expect a 'gourmet chef' like France to have. "When was the last time you went shopping, Frog?" he muttered to himself as he pulled out an egg carton. There may not be very much that he could cook well, but he could at least fry an egg.

He chuckled as he cracked a few. If Francis saw him, he would start screaming about how Arthur was trying to kill him. But Francis was still upstairs. He had fallen asleep soon after Arthur arrived, and was still asleep when Arthur decided they needed to eat and got up. He hoped to return before Francis realized he was gone.

 _Francis._ His smile faded. Arthur had no idea how he had gotten like this, but he knew how he felt. Poor bloke. As much as he wanted to help, there was only so much Arthur could do. The best thing he could do was care for the other man.

Care about him. Because he did. He had been in love with Francis since World War II, or at least, that was when he realized it. And as much as he wanted to, now would be the wrong time to tell him. If he tried to say anything now, Francis would never believe him. Depression was a terrible thing to build a relationship on. So he would continue to hold his tongue and wait for Francis to be ready.

* * *

Francis was alone when he woke up. The bed was cold where Arthur had been. He looked at the clock, he had fallen asleep several hours ago. Arthur had probably left shortly after that, thinking that Francis would be alright. He wasn't.

He tried to push back the crushing loneliness that threatened to overtake him, but instead just found himself asking _why?_ Why fight it? Why even try? No one cared anyway. Not even Arthur.

He curled up, burying himself in his blankets again, waiting for sleep to claim him again. Maybe things would look better in the morning. Arthur always said-

 _No._ Thinking about Arthur wouldn't help. Maybe nothing would. Maybe he would stay depressed for the rest of his life. Maybe if he was stronger Arthur wouldn't have left.

He ignored the tears welling in his eyes, he refused to cry anymore. He was going to be strong now.

He got out of bed, going into his bathroom and staring at his reflection. His eyes were bloodshot, his skin red from crying, and his hair mussed from laying in bed for so long. It was almost enough to send him back to bed. Almost. Instead he washed his face and went back to his room, intending to find some clean clothes and go outside for a while.

Instead he found Arthur.

"What are you doing here?" Francis whispered in shock.

Arthur turned to face him and held out a plate, "You said you hadn't eaten since this morning… I thought you might be hungry." he hesitated when Francis didn't move, "Are you alright?"

"I thought you had left."

"No, I just-" he stopped, realizing what Francis meant, he set the plate down, "Oh, Francis. Come here."

Francis hesitantly stepped forward and Arthur gently sat him on the edge of the bed. "Oui?" Francis sighed.

"I will be here for as long as you need me." Arthur handed him the plate, "Now eat."

He looked at it, it appeared to be some kind of sandwich made with eggs and… some sort of... leftovers maybe? Not his first choice, but hopefully not completely inedible. He looked up at Arthur, "Have you eaten?"

"Yeah, I had something while I was downstairs."

Francis held out half of the sandwich, "I know when you're lying, Arthur."

"You need to eat more than I do."

"That doesn't mean you don't need to eat at all."

Arthur glared at him for a minute, then took the sandwich. Francis waited until Arthur had taken a bite before he tried his. He had no plans to be poisoned tonight.

"Are you going back to bed now?" Arthur asked when he finished, picking up the plate to take it back to the kitchen.

"Actually, I thought I might go outside."

"That sounds nice. Mind if I join you?"

Francis looked at him in surprise, "Non, of course not."

* * *

A few minutes later, the two of them were standing in the back garden, staring up at the stars that were starting to come out. Both were barefoot and coatless despite the cold air.

Francis realized he was holding Arthur's hand, and wasn't sure who had initiated the contact. But it was alright. He would be alright. He would get better, and maybe then he would tell Arthur how he felt. Maybe Arthur wouldn't be angry. Maybe, by some incredible chance, maybe Arthur felt the same way.

* * *

 **well, that's the end I had planned, but I'm going to leave it incomplete because I might decide to write another part. So, y'know, let me know your opinion: is it good as it is? or should I write a third part?**


	3. Lover

Francis leaned back, still half asleep. Arthur's arms, which were wrapped around him, were just so warm.

"Francis?" Arthur must have felt him shifting, "Are you awake?"

"Mmmm," Francis moaned in response.

Arthur sighed, "How are you feeling?"

Francis opened his eyes and leaned back enough to look at Arthur, "I'm all right."

"I have some business to take care of, so I'll need to go home in the morning. Is that okay?"

"Oui," Francis shifted so he could wrap his arms around Arthur's waist and rest his head over his heart, "Why wouldn't it be?"

"Well, you know, you-"

"I'm _fine._ " Francis was a little surprised to realize he wasn't saying it just for Arthur's sake, but that he truly meant it. "Just promise you'll come back."

"Of course I will," he promised, "As long as you need me. Just... give me a call."

 _I always need you,_ Francis thought as he fell asleep again.

* * *

It had been a few months since the night they spent under the stars. Francis hadn't been calling Arthur quite so often anymore, it was weird: before he had avoided calling the other nation because he didn't want to disturb him, now he had found he didn't need the physical comfort quite so much. He still missed Arthur, but in a 'I like spending time with you' way, rather than a 'I need to know you don't hate me' way.

Perhaps it was because he missed Arthur, or perhaps it was meant as nothing more than a thank you, but Francis had decided to make a surprise visit to his neighbor to the north and do something nice for him. More specifically, make him an edible dinner. And if the dinner happened to be slightly romantic, well, that was an added bonus.

* * *

Arthur looked around his house as he closed his front door. He had come home from a long day of work to find that his house smelled suspiciously...french. He came around the corner into the living room to see Francis kneeling in front of the old-fashioned, and unfortunately not working, radio. "Francis?" he asked in surprise, "What are you doing here?"

The Frenchman stood up and spun around in surprise, "Arthur!" he blushed, "I-er," he pointed to the machine behind him, "Your radio is broken."

"Yes, I've been meaning to get that fixed. But, again, what are you doing here?"

Francis tugged on the bottom of his shirt, almost like he was nervous, "I just," his face flushed a bit, "I wanted to see you."

"You could have called," Arthur reminded him, "I would have come over."

"I know, but you always come to me. I wanted to come to you."

Arthur hesitated, "I haven't visited you in a while," he observed.

"Well no…"

"But, then again, you haven't called. Which I suppose should have made me worry more, you could have gotten worse…" he realized he was rambling, he quietly tried to amend what he had been trying to say, "I didn't think you needed me anymore."

Francis' eyes widen in surprise, "I always need you, Arthur," he says it so quietly Arthur almost thinks he imagined it

"What?"

Francis stares down at the floor, his blush spreading from his face to his ears, "I wanted to do something to thank you."

"You… what?" Arthur stared at him quizzically.

"For being there for me," he clarified, "So I made dinner."

"Oh, that's nice. Thank you."

Francis finally looked up at him and smiled.

* * *

"This is good," Arthur complimented.

"Well, compared to anything you could make," Francis teased, "Of course it is."

"Oi! I thought you weren't supposed to insult your host at dinner. I also thought said dinner was meant as a 'thank you', not a 'fuck you'."

Francis laughed a little, "Of course, I am sorry."

Arthur had almost forgotten how good that smile looked on him, it had been so long since he had seen it. "So is dinner really all that brought you here?"

"No, I," he paused, not meeting Arthur's eyes, "I wanted to talk to you."

Arthur froze, "About what?"

"As I said, I wanted to thank you for all you've done to help me…" he trailed off, like there was still more he wanted to say.

"And?" Arthur prompted.

"And I wanted to tell you I love you."

There was a long silence in which neither of them spoke or moved, they just watched each other, each trying to gage the other's reactions. "No, you don't," Arthur finally said, "You just think you do. It's all-"

Francis got up before he could finish and walked to front door, putting on his shoes and coat.

"Francis?"

"I'm going home," he spoke so quietly Arthur had to strain to hear him. The door closed and Francis was gone before Arthur could think of anything to say.

* * *

Arthur didn't get much sleep that night. He kept tossing and turning, replaying what he had said. Wasn't that what he had wanted to hear from the Frenchman? Hadn't he been waiting for Francis to be ready for this kind of step?

So then why did he not only reject him, but actually bring his feelings into question?

Maybe he really though Francis still wasn't ready. Or maybe he was just scared.

He eventually gave up laying in bed in favor of pacing the house. Maybe he should go see Francis and try to talk some sense into him. He wasn't going to get any sleep anyway.

* * *

And so, sometime past midnight, Arthur found himself in Francis' home nearest the channel. "Damn it," he muttered after searching the bedroom for the Frenchman, who was nowhere to be found. If he was wrong about him coming here, it meant he would have to go to Francis' other homes until he found the other nation.

He looked out the window at the moonlit garden, the same one they had watched the stars in. He frowned in thought, there was a small stream at the back border of the yard.

As suspected, Arthur found Francis on a tree swing by the stream. "Francis?"

He didn't seem surprised to hear him, he didn't even turn around, "Non."

"Uh, what?"

"You don't get to decide how I feel. They're my feelings, and I know them better than you."

"I know that, Francis, really. I was just saying, after everything you've been through, it's natural to feel this way about someone who's been so close, or who you might view as a savior. Like transference, or hero's syndrome, or whatever it's called."

"Yes, Arthur," Francis stood up and faced him, "That explains why I've been in love you my whole life. Even at Waterloo, even when you took Mathieu, even as Jeanne died. I loved you, sometimes I hated myself for it, but I've always loved you. And if you don't believe me," he pushed Arthur's shoulder, a little harder than he meant to, making him lose his balance and fall into the water. "Arthur," he gasped.

Arthur laughed, cutting him off, "All right, Francis. You're right. So you do love me. Just like I love you."

"You?" Francis asked softly, "How do I know you're not just pitying me?"

"Pity? Francis-"

"Why shouldn't you?" he interrupted, "I don't- I'm not- I... Arthur-" he sounded like he was about to start crying.

"You're not pathetic," Arthur objected, "Or worthless, or useless, or any of those other negative things someone has made you believe. You are perfect."

"I'm not," Francis sniffled.

"Fine. But you are so perfectly imperfect that I don't know how anyone could not love you. Especially me. I really do love you, Francis."

Francis wiped his eyes and reached down to help him up, but instead Arthur pulled him down into the water with him. Francis shrieked as Arthur laughed. Francis pushed his hair out of his face and splashed him.

"Fine, all right," Arthur laughed then wrapped his arms around Francis, "I'm sorry I said you don't love me."

Francis buried his face in Arthur's shoulder, "I'm sorry I pushed you in the stream. But we're going to get sick if we stay here."

"Yeah, a'right," he helped Francis up, "You have something dry I can borrow?"

"Yes, of course," Francis took his hand and led him towards the house.

"Just not that horrible Paris snuggie."

"Of course not. That one's mine," he paused, "But I do have a London one for you."

"...Wot?"

* * *

Arthur laid on Francis' couch. Francis was lying between his legs, arms wrapped around his waist, asleep. True to his word, Francis was wearing his horrible snuggie, but Arthur was dressed in sweatpants and a tee shirt. Arthur was brushing his fingers through Francis' soft curls.

They had been watching a movie before they both fell asleep, Arthur had woken up during the credits and was now watching infomercials in french. Francis shifted a bit, "Arzhur?" he slurred.

"Hmm?"

"What are we watching?"

"I think it's an infomercial for a… blender?"

"Do you need a blender?"

"No."

"Me neither," Francis pushed himself up and kissed Arthur, "We should go to bed."

"'Go to bed' as in…?"

"As in _sleep_ ," Francis smirked, "Unless you want more?"

"Only if you do."

Francis laid back down, "Non." he was silent long enough Arthur thought he fell asleep again, "Arthur?" he asked.

"Hmm?" Arthur kissed his forehead.

"J'taime."

"Love you, too."

* * *

 **There's chapter three. Hopefully it met the standards of the first two. This should be the end of this story, but I'll leave it labled as in-progress anyway.**

 **Shout out to browsofglory for requesting part three. Thanks for the support of everyone who favorited, followed, and reviewed.**


	4. Loveless

**...August 1944…**

It was Alfred who found him first. Barely alive, hair shorn off, wrist broken from the chains that had held him captive, covered in blood from the gunshot he had taken to the head when the Germans fled, his once-fine clothes torn and ruined. In short, he was broken.

Alfred had looked sick as he released him and carried him away. "Somewhere safe." he had heard him say, but hadn't been aware enough to realize exactly where. Away from the Paris townhouse that had become his prison. Alfred never left him. Instead, he had sent one of his own men away to find someone, he hadn't realized who until they arrived.

Arthur. Arthur and Matthew, actually. But Arthur was there, alive, no thanks to him. "France," he gasped when he saw him. He rushed forward. Francis stared, seeing him, but not acknowledging him. "France," he repeated, placing his hands on his shoulders.

But it wasn't Arthur that he saw. It was the German soldiers. His tormentors. He screamed and thrashed like he was being held down again.

"Dude, you're hurting him!" Alfred pulled Arthur away, and his screams turned to sobbing.

"Papa?" Matthew knelt in front of him, gently reaching for his uninjured hand, but he flinched away.

* * *

 **...1945...**

 _He could hear them laughing. Could feel their hands on him. Feel the panic rising in his throat. He wouldn't give them the pleasure of hearing him cry._

Francis bit his tongue, hard enough to bleed, to keep himself from screaming. He gasped, trying to catch his breath as he looked around the room. It was dark, but blessedly unfamiliar. He choked on the bile rising in his throat, barely making it to the toilet before he retched. He gasped, clawing at his shirt collar, tears streaming down his face now that he knew he was alone.

He looked up to find his reflection staring back at him. He looked awful. His still horribly short hair a mess, dark circles, almost like bruises under his eyes from a lack of sleep. He could still feel their cold hands on him. He wrestled his shirt off, scratching at his skin, trying to make the feeling go away.

He turned the shower on as hot as it would go before stripping the rest of his clothes off, exposing his emaciated body and all his horrible scars, and stepped under the stream of scalding water, hoping to wash himself clean.

* * *

Arthur would always remember how Francis looked the first time he saw him after the war. He looked like he had been through hell. But Arthur felt like he had never seen anything better. Because Francis was alive. Alive, but as he soon realized, not whole.

Now, here they were in New York for a meeting only a year later. Francis was in the room next to Arthur's, and Arthur couldn't help but wonder if he was sleeping, because he didn't look like he was. The walls were too thin, so Arthur heard all too well when Francis started coughing, and then when the shower started.

Almost an hour later, with still no sound other than the running water, Arthur got up. He left his own room and knocked on the door next to his. When he tried the door, he was surprised to find it unlocked. "Francis?" he called as he stepped in. The bathroom door wasn't quite closed, light spilling through the crack. "Francis?" he called again, tapping on the door before stepping in. The room was clouded with steam, and almost covered by the sound of the water, he could now hear Francis sobbing.

"Francis?" he asked again, this time louder. The Frenchman immediately fell silent, the water turning off a moment later.

Francis slowly peeked around the curtain, "What are you doing here?" he was so quiet he sounded more like Matthew than himself.

Arthur stared at him, his skin was red from the heat, and as Arthur's gaze fell to his arms he noticed the deep scratches there. He opened his mouth to reply, but no words came out.

"England?"

"You're hurting yourself."

"England, please leave. I'd like to be alone."

Arthur nodded. "I'm going to be right outside." Francis disappeared behind the curtain again and the water turned back on. Arthur stepped out, leaning against the wall next to the door and sinking to the floor. He stared up at the ceiling.

The image of Francis was stuck in his head, along with two of the words he had used. _Please_ , he had asked, begged actually, for Arthur to leave. No demanding or snide comments. And he had called him England. _England_. Not Angleterre, or Eyebrows, or even Arthur. This wasn't the same Francis he knew before the war. This one was broken and hurting.

* * *

Francis ducked behind the curtain, hoping that Arthur really would be gone when he re-emerged, and turned the water back on, cold this time. He was hoping to wash away the shame letting Arthur see him had brought. It made sense, he had just come to stare, use any humiliating thing he saw against him. It was no different from how it was before.

Silent tears poured down his face. He should have locked the door, but it hadn't been allowed when he was a prisoner, and thus became a habit. Now Arthur knew. Knew how weak he really was. He had tried, really, but couldn't even protect himself, let alone Arthur.

He didn't deserve him. Not his love (if, by some miracle, there was any), not his pity. Not when he hadn't been able to help him during the blitz. Not when Emma and Feliks and Arthur and Ludwig and Gilbert and everyone else had it worse than he did. He was pathetic. Useless and pathetic. He should have died.

* * *

Arthur was still waiting outside the door when the water turned off again. When Francis emerged a minute later, wrapped up in a bathrobe, the two froze, staring at each other.

Arthur wanted to speak. There was so much he wanted to say. _Are you eating? Are you sleeping? You're safe now. I know how you feel. You're not alone. You never were._

But instead it was Francis who broke the silence first, "The meeting starts in an hour, England, you should get dressed."

Mutely, Arthur nodded and left, not wanting to stay where he wasn't wanted. He heard the lock click behind him and turned to stare at it, wishing it would open again. He shook his head, Francis had no reason to want to see him. He rested his hand against the wood, "I couldn't protect you. I'm sorry.

* * *

Francis had locked the door behind Arthur, but his hand froze on the knob, ready to fling the door open and call Arthur back. He rested his forehead against the door, "I'm sorry," he whispered, "I'm not strong enough."

* * *

 **surprise! It's back! This time with some insight to why Francis is the way he is, from back when Arthur fell in love with him**


End file.
